anything happens to me, you will not let Candace stay and try to help me, and get burned to death or crushed.” He gave a very slight smile. “Perhaps the volcano is only complaining in its sleep, and it will all be quiet again in a few hours. We will stay here over Christmas, and then Bailey and poor Isla will go back to some nice home that he has chosen, and she hates. Bretherton will go back to his home, and try to forget her, and of course he will fail. Quinn will continue to pretend to be writing another book, which of course he will not do, because he did not write the first one.”
“What do you mean, ‘he did not write the first one’?” Charles asked, shocked.
Finbar shook his head. “He took the credit, but the passion is someone else’s,” he replied.
“Who else?” Charles was disturbed by the thought. “You mean someone else told him the stories?”
“Probably something like that.” Finbar dismissed the subject. “All I meant was that life will go back to normal. You will return to London and whatever it is you do, Candace and I will go back to our lives. Stefano will have new guests. The mountain will go back to sleep again.”
It sounded terribly final, and in a way like a kind of failure, something attempted and not achieved, searched for and not found.
“Of course I will look after her if anything happens,” Charles said, hearing his own voice as if it belonged to a stranger. “And you,” he added. “They say Stromboli is always erupting, but that it is never serious.”
“I hope so,” Finbar agreed. He held out his hand, offering it to Charles.
Charles took a deep breath, and then clasped it. It was the making of an agreement, the sealing of a promise, and he knew it. But surely it would never be needed? The mountain would go back to its habitual silence. Finbar would benefit from his holiday, and this would all be a memory. But the gesture was a kindness at six o’clock on a winter morning, after a disturbed night.
Finbar rose to his feet a little stiffly and Charles stood as well, as courtesy required.
“Thank you,” Finbar said softly. “I will see you at breakfast.”
B reakfast was unusually subdued. Stefano came out of the kitchen with his usual smile, but he spoke very little, and it was only about the food. Did everyone have sufficient? Was the bread to their taste? And the goat cheese and the ham? Everyone agreed that it was, and thanked him.
Isla drew in breath once and began to ask how everybody was, then stopped halfway through. It seemed they had all heard the mountain in the night. Comments were begun, and then abandoned. No one wished to put voice to what might happen next, until Walker-Bailey said what they had all been thinking.
“Bit of a surprise, isn’t it?” he said to Charles. “Wasn’t expecting so much noise in the night. Closer to the damn thing than I realized. Still, this house has been here for generations, possibly centuries. I daresay it gets the occasional scar, but nothing serious. I suggest no one climbs today.”
“I’m sure no one was going to,” Quinn said to him, then took the last piece of bread out of the basket. He reached for the jam.
Just as he pushed the spoon into it, there was a deafening crash and then a roar that seemed to fill the air. He dropped the spoon on the cloth and went sheet white.
“God Almighty!” Bailey said in a high voice.
Isla opened her mouth but made no sound at all.
“Everybody, keep calm,” Bretherton ordered, as if he were in charge of a military platoon under fire.
Candace took Finbar’s hand, but she did not move. Perhaps beside him was the safest place she could imagine.
There was another roar and red light filled the room, although it was long past the blazing winter sunrise. It remained for seconds…nine or ten…although it seemed like an age. Finally it died and there was only a distant grumbling.
“Thank God!” Quinn said, letting out his breath.
There was the sound of an
“What do you mean, ‘he did not write the first one’?” Charles asked, shocked.
Finbar shook his head. “He took the credit, but the passion is someone else’s,” he replied.
“Who else?” Charles was disturbed by the thought. “You mean someone else told him the stories?”
“Probably something like that.” Finbar dismissed the subject. “All I meant was that life will go back to normal. You will return to London and whatever it is you do, Candace and I will go back to our lives. Stefano will have new guests. The mountain will go back to sleep again.”
It sounded terribly final, and in a way like a kind of failure, something attempted and not achieved, searched for and not found.
“Of course I will look after her if anything happens,” Charles said, hearing his own voice as if it belonged to a stranger. “And you,” he added. “They say Stromboli is always erupting, but that it is never serious.”
“I hope so,” Finbar agreed. He held out his hand, offering it to Charles.
Charles took a deep breath, and then clasped it. It was the making of an agreement, the sealing of a promise, and he knew it. But surely it would never be needed? The mountain would go back to its habitual silence. Finbar would benefit from his holiday, and this would all be a memory. But the gesture was a kindness at six o’clock on a winter morning, after a disturbed night.
Finbar rose to his feet a little stiffly and Charles stood as well, as courtesy required.
“Thank you,” Finbar said softly. “I will see you at breakfast.”
B reakfast was unusually subdued. Stefano came out of the kitchen with his usual smile, but he spoke very little, and it was only about the food. Did everyone have sufficient? Was the bread to their taste? And the goat cheese and the ham? Everyone agreed that it was, and thanked him.
Isla drew in breath once and began to ask how everybody was, then stopped halfway through. It seemed they had all heard the mountain in the night. Comments were begun, and then abandoned. No one wished to put voice to what might happen next, until Walker-Bailey said what they had all been thinking.
“Bit of a surprise, isn’t it?” he said to Charles. “Wasn’t expecting so much noise in the night. Closer to the damn thing than I realized. Still, this house has been here for generations, possibly centuries. I daresay it gets the occasional scar, but nothing serious. I suggest no one climbs today.”
“I’m sure no one was going to,” Quinn said to him, then took the last piece of bread out of the basket. He reached for the jam.
Just as he pushed the spoon into it, there was a deafening crash and then a roar that seemed to fill the air. He dropped the spoon on the cloth and went sheet white.
“God Almighty!” Bailey said in a high voice.
Isla opened her mouth but made no sound at all.
“Everybody, keep calm,” Bretherton ordered, as if he were in charge of a military platoon under fire.
Candace took Finbar’s hand, but she did not move. Perhaps beside him was the safest place she could imagine.
There was another roar and red light filled the room, although it was long past the blazing winter sunrise. It remained for seconds…nine or ten…although it seemed like an age. Finally it died and there was only a distant grumbling.
“Thank God!” Quinn said, letting out his breath.
There was the sound of an
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